


Always Aim For The Heart

by rubygirl29



Series: The Boxer Series [7]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has a tendency to fall off the map after an op. Phil is intrigued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Aim For The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Part of the Boxer series. This was the inspiration. [ Sweet Dreams](http://youtu.be/yOptDDU3rOo)
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters, Roy Buchanan owns _Sweet Dreams_ , I own only my words.

After the train-wreck of Budapest, after healing and just when Phil thinks his life is finally making sense, Clint vanishes. It's not so unusual. Phil has been aware of this tendency for years, but he thought maybe the pattern had been broken -- he hoped the pattern had been broken -- but when he wakes up alone, he's painfully aware that Clint has reverted to old habits. 

In the past, Phil has never been motivated to find Barton. He has always shown up when needed, occasionally looking worse for the wear, but more often than not, looking as if his downtime has been relaxing. Phil's curiosity is piqued, and this time, he's more than a little curious. Where does Barton go when he goes off the grid? 

Phil is a spy. Of course, he can figure this one out. The problem is, he's trying to find a master of camouflage and evasion, and because Phil is reluctant to invade Clint's personal space, he has to use what he can access without guilt. 

Clint's mailing address is in Bedford-Stuyvesant; not the best neighborhood, but Barton can take care of himself. A Google Earth search for businesses in the area turns up s scattering of bars and restaurants around the building. Phil crosses off the Thai take-outs and the Mexican _taquerias_. He keeps the Irish pub, the Bed-Sty diner, coffee shops and bars. 

He takes out the places that close before 11pm. That leaves the diner, one coffee shop and the bars. He prints out a list of addresses and turns off his computer. He keeps jeans and a dark turtleneck sweater at the office and changes out of his impeccable suit. He hangs up his tie and switches out his black wingtips for a pair of broken-in boots. He decides to take the subway rather than risk his car on the streets of Bed-Sty.

Nobody pays attention to him. He's just a plain man in everyday clothes. He gets off at the stop nearest to the heart of his search. The night is chilly and damp; not bad for February on the cusp of March. He sticks his hands in his pockets and starts towards the diner. He opens the door and scopes it out. It really isn't Clint's kind of place. Barton, for all his reputation as a junk-food junkie, is more into healthy foods than Phil, and when he's not on an op, he likes his restaurants to be clean. This place seems to specialize in heart attack cuisine and the tables have a greasy sheen to them. Phil backs out and hits the coffee-shop. 

This place looks like a place Clint would like. Brick walls, a few plants, bookcases with second hand books. The coffee smells divine and Phil isn't about to pass up a latte. He orders and the barista serves him with a smile. He tells her this is a nice place, and that he has a friend in the area, Clint Barton. That earns him a blush and a smile. 

"Sure, I know Clint. He's a great guy."

"Actually, I was out of town for a few days and I was hoping to see him. I guess his phone must be out of juice. You know where he might be tonight?"

"Are you a cop?" she asks suspiciously.

"No. A coworker." Phil gives her his best smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look friendly and approachable. "Just ... a coworker." 

"You might find him at the Aerie. Next block over."

"Of course," Phil says with a wry smile. He gives her a generous tip and gets his coffee to go. The building would seem to be abandoned but for the flickering neon _Liquor_ sign. 

The Aerie looks like a dive bar, all smoke and neon and the sad wail of country music in the background. Standing behind the scarred wooden bar, Clint is pouring drinks. He's wearing a tight Black Sabbath T-shirt and faded jeans that hug his body in all the right places. Phil feels the flush rising all the way to the roots of his hair. Nobody should look that good in secondhand clothes. 

Phil makes his way to the bar and sits on the end stool. The seat next to his is occupied by a biker in a leather vest, a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn out and biceps the size of hams. He looks at Phil. "You're not from around here."

Phil thinks that sounds like a line from _Star Wars_. He gives the biker a frosty appraisal. "I get around. You?"

"My whole life." He grins, showing off a gold tooth. "This is a bar where the bartender actually gives a fuck about you. Hey, Barton, get the new guy a drink! He looks like he's got cash." 

The regulars laugh, and it takes a moment for Clint to draw a beer and set it down in front of the customer who ordered it. He looks at Phil and his eyes widen in surprise. "You followed me?"

The biker gives him a somewhat murderous look. "This guy giving you problems, Barton?"

"Nothing I can't handle." He grins at the biker. Leans on the bar. "So, did you follow me?"

"Not really. I did my job."

"What's your poison?"

"The usual."

Clint gets out a bottle of bourbon. Coulson raises a brow. "I thought this was a dive bar."

"I have a few customers with discerning tastes," Clint says, his eyes bright. He deftly pours a shot of Woodford over ice, exactly the way he likes it, and slides it towards him. "So, my guilty secret is out," he sighs.

"You work here?"

"Not exactly. I kind of own the place." 

"You own it?" How the hell had he managed to keep this a secret from everybody, Phil wonders. "Does Natasha know?"

Clint shakes his head. "I don't think so, but you never know with 'Tasha."

"Why hide it? It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Clint raises a brow. "You think I'm ashamed of this?"

"No. I just want to know why."

Clint sighs. "You go home and watch crappy TV. I come here and listen to other people's problems and pour demon rum." He shrugs. "Nobody knows or cares who I am, what I do. When they drink too much, I call a cab or a friend to take them home, and when I turn off the lights I go home. This is the closest thing to normal I've ever had, Coulson."

Phil understands. He feels the same way when he visits his family. They think he's a corporate lawyer. "Umm, where is home?"

"Upstairs. C'mon." He takes the towel out of his waistband and tosses it to the petite brunette who has joined him behind the bar. "Make sure Billie Ray gets home, Inez."

"Sure, boss." She's small, but she looks like she can handle herself. "Calling it a night?" She looks Coulson up and down. "I can see why."

Clint rolls his eyes at her. "Thanks, Inez. Announce it to the whole bar."

"Go. Marcus and I will close up." She winks at him before turning to her next customer.

"This way ..." Clint starts walking down a narrow corridor towards an exit sign. They go up two flights of stairs to the top floor. "Back in the day this used to be a garment factory. When I brought it, this was three shitty little apartments and the building was on the verge of being condemned. I broke down the walls to make this ... " He opens the door. "It's not much to look at," he apologizes. "but it's the first place I ever had that is completely mine."

He turns on the lights and Phil's eyes widen in shock. The space is huge, unexpectedly light even at night. Windows look out over the cityscape. He can see the skyline of Manhattan, a world away from where he's standing. The ceilings are strung with exposed beams and ductwork. He recognizes gymnastic equipment -- rings, ladders hung horizontally, bars suspended like trapeze swings. At the other end is a wall hung with padded targets of various sizes and colors that look like graphic artwork. A rack of bows ranging from simple recurves to the high-tech modern compound bows form a sculpture that casts long shadows across the exposed brick walls. 

The furniture is minimal. There is a leather couch, a polished steel coffee table, a recliner, and on the wall opposite the couch, a big screen TV. The kitchen has a stainless steel counter and restaurant quality appliances. The wide concrete pillar setting it apart from the rest of the room is painted a deep purple and decorated with graffiti. At the end of the exercise area another dark purple wall hides a bedroom and bathroom. 

"It suits you," Phil says. "But none of this is what I expected."

"I didn't deliberately hide it from you," Clint says. He looks defensive, and Phil doesn't know what to say. Clint paces away ten steps, then takes ten steps back. "I'm sorry if you think that's what I'm doing."

"Don't apologize. You shouldn't have to feel as if you have to hide it from anybody," Phil finally speaks. "S.H.I.E.L.D. may demand a lot of its agents, but it doesn't take back what they've earned on their own. It's healthier to have a place away."

"Even if it comes with a dive bar?" 

Phil has to smile. "Especially with a dive bar." He takes a step closer to Clint. "You know, I never expected to wake up alone."

Clint shakes his head. He walks over to the wall and picks up a recurve bow. He nocks an arrow and shoots at one of his targets. It's perfect. Ten targets, ten arrows, perfect every time. Phil waits patiently. 

"I told you ... staying ... It's not what I do, I mean ... did." He thrusts a hand through his hair in frustration. "I suck at this."

"At _this_?"

Clint hangs up his bow and drops down on the couch. He has an arrow in his hand and he runs his thumb over the purple fletching. "People don't stay, Coulson. They leave. My folks, my brother, Trickshot ... even Natasha abandoned me at some point. So, I finally decided that I would leave on my terms, and I have. Every time. I don't _stay_. I don't think I can." His voice breaks despite the knot in his jaw. 

Phil rubs the back of his neck. "You stayed with me."

"Yeah ... I did. I don't know if it was the best thing ever or the worst thing I ever did." He sets the arrow down carefully. "How screwed up am I, Coulson?"

"In my book? Not at all." He perches cautiously on the arm of the couch, careful to keep his distance from Clint. "This is your place. What happens here is your decision."

Clint rises, holds out his hand to Phil. "If you want ... " his voice falters. 

"Want what?"

"If you want _me_ , I'd like that. A lot." He says in quickly, in a rush, as if he waited the words were too big to be spoken. 

Phil takes Clint's hand and brings him close. He leans in and kisses Clint. Their lips brush gently. "I want you." 

Clint's eyes widen and then flutter down as he returns the kiss. Before Coulson knows it they're on the couch, kissing, petting, tugging at clothes to find skin. There isn't any doubt that they both want this, want each other. Phil feels as if he's been holding his breath ever since he woke up alone. Now, everything feels good and right. 

Clint pulls away and tugs Phil to his feet. "Come to bed?"

"Yes. Absolutely." He wants it so much that he can hardly say it. They stumble to the bedroom, their arms wrapped around each other, pausing to kiss; for Clint to tug at Phil's belt, and slide his hand past the button on his jeans, even as Phil mirrors the action.  


Phil wins that race, his palm pressing against smooth, taut muscles and the rough hair low on Clint's groin. He can feel the moist slick of come on the head of Clint's cock, and when he rubs it with his thumb, Clint swears and muscles him over to the bed where they tumble to the mattress and strip down. 

It's easy after that. To open Clint with his tongue and fingers, to watch his eyes darken, to hear his rough whispers begging, asking, cursing, until Phil slicks up his palm with the lube Clint shoves into his hand, and coats his cock, finally, finally pushing into Clint's body. He rocks into Clint, trapping his cock between them, until the friction and pressure have him pushing Phil even deeper into his body, his fingers leaving bruises on Phil's ass as they both reach orgasm; shaking, shuddering and gasping until they crest and climax. 

They stay joined until Phil has to move or lose all sensation in his legs. He kisses Clint and smoothes the damp hair off his forehead. When he slides away, Clint makes a small, pained sound. 

"Did I hurt you?" Phil asks, concerned.

"You broke me," Clint whispers. "But that's okay." He turns slightly, pulling Phil into the curve of his body. "Don't want to clean up yet."

Phil doesn't either. He wants to keep the scent of Clint's sex and sweat on his body. He's tired, and Clint is already breathing softly and evenly. A few minutes won't hurt, he decides, and his heavy eyelids drift shut.

He wakes up slowly. The clock reads 3:30AM. He is thirsty and he needs to use the bathroom. He slips out of bed, leaving Clint's warm body reluctantly. He cleans up, and is about to start gathering his clothes when Clint stirs and opens his eyes.

He says one word. "Stay. My choice."

"You're sure?"

"My decision," Clint says in his sleep-slowed voice. "Please." He reaches for the blanket and holds it open for Phil. He slides in, feels the softness of the blanket cover them both. They don't spoon or cuddle, but Clint's shoulder is solid against his back as he falls back to sleep. 

His heart hurts like an arrow has pierced it. 

**The End**


End file.
